Painting the Roses Red
by ChangelingbyChoice
Summary: A thrilling chase ends in disaster... of sorts.


_**Painting the Roses Red**_

_A thrilling chase ends in disaster… of sorts._

For Sherlock Holmes, there was nothing like the thrill of the chase. A grim purposeful smile contorted his pale lips as he sprinted flat-out down a weed-spotted alleyway. Just yards ahead of him ran his quarry, a stocky unshaven man, about thirty-five years of age, who until the previous day been little more than a petty thief.

Now he was a murderer. Four people were dead by his hand… Or rather by his gun. No clear motive had been found. Yet.

Sherlock's smile grew wider and his footsteps quickened. It was as if Christmas had come early!

For John Watson however, the thrill of the chase had long since worn off. Black splotched flickered dizzyingly before his eyes, and a persistent side-stitch twinged beneath his ribs. With every gulping breath he took frigid morning air seared his lungs. His heart slammed against the wall of his chest in a futile effort to escape the strain. Despite his military training, the excursion had taken its toll.

"Sher…lock!" He gasped, expelling the word along with a huff of exasperated air. "Too… fast! Can't… keep up…" Further laboring for breath sapped his coherence away. Hyperventilation was imminent. " Slower… please!"

"But he'll get away!" Sherlock exclaimed indignantly from around the corner. Apparently the run didn't have as much of an effect on him, because he had already reached the roaring intersection ahead with the criminal only footsteps out of reach.

_Spiteful git. _John thought as he struggled to regain lost ground. Sherlock was a man of few weaknesses, and it seemed that poor stamina wasn't one of them. Nor was fear of sudden death which John deduced as Sherlock went charging across the intersection, practically vaulting over the hood of a cab in his reckless hurry, earning a protesting squall from its horn for the trouble.

All that could be done on John's part was recover his breath and wait for the traffic to turn. _He _wasn't about to go running willy-nilly into a road like that! So he watched panting as the criminal bolted down the adjacent sidewalk with the relentless consulting detective in hot pursuit.

There was nothing to worry about now. Sherlock could hold his own against much worse than one crazed over-weight murderer… But then why was his stomach twisting into anxious knots?

Because Sherlock didn't know when to stop. An unsolvable case was out of the question for him, and he would run himself into the ground trying to figure it out. What exactly did he intend to do with this man once he cornered him? Invite him to discuss his heists over tea and stale biscuits? No, from the look of him he was a thug; strong, aggressive, but not too bright. Most likely he wouldn't take kindly to being apprehended and attempt to fight his way out. And it was obvious that he knew how to fight.

As the traffic light changed, John steeled himself by taking a deep calming breath before dashing across the street. With renewed vigor he followed the trail of chaos left behind by the chase. First was a mess of overturned rubbish bins that lay strewn about, meant to hinder pursuit. They wouldn't hinder Sherlock though. In his mind's eye, John could picture the detective bounding over them like track hurdles. Too easy. Boring, as Sherlock himself would say.

Then after he picked his way past the bins came a gaggle of distressed pedestrians. The criminal must have gone barreling through them, roughly shoving and shouldering, leaving Sherlock to elbow his way after him.

John turned to one of them, a dark-skinned woman with wiry close-cropped hair and asked urgently,

"Did two men pass through here?"

"Yeah," she replied, fidgeting with her purse's faded leather strap. "They went that way." With a trembling finger she pointed vaguely to the left.

"Thanks."Without further delay, he rounded the corner at a brisk clip. In the distance police sirens blared insistently. Must be Lestrade with back-up. Silently John thanked whatever crime-fighting entity that was watching over them. Once Sherlock had cornered his quarry, Lestrade's workers could swoop in and take care of the rest before things got out of hand. Brilliant mind aside, Sherlock was prone to making somewhat unwise or even glaringly stupid decisions to avoid boredom, and a heated chase such as this was a most interesting adventure to take part in… At least for him. For the average person it was, at best, nerve-wracking and at worst, petrifying.

Now John did not consider himself "average" per se, but chasing some psychotic nutcase around London on a Saturday morning was _not_ high on his bucket list. As a matter of fact, it wasn't on his bucket list at all.

Suddenly gunshots rattled the air a few streets away along with the silvery shatter of broken glass. _Oh God… _Panic goaded John's hurried lope into a sprint, banishing the thought of his bucket list entirely. The man was armed!

"Sherlock!" he bellowed, "Stop! Lestrade's guys are coming, let _them_ take care of him! That man's dangerous; just let him go! "

"No!" came the simple reply. There was nothing John wanted to do more than rugby-tackle the detective to the ground and sit on him, although it was unlikely that he'd ever even _find_ Sherlock, let alone get close enough to exercise his strategy.

"What do you mean _no!_" he screeched, both amazed and angered by Sherlock's nonchalance. "He's got a bloody _gun _for God's sake! He'll blow your head off your shoulders like an overripe melon! but that's alright I reckon, because melons are just as useful, if not more so than that over-inflated egotistical lump you call a brain! Are you listening to me Sherlock?" He paused to listen. Even the far-off slap of running feet was gone.

The doctor's stomach sank to where his hips met his legs while his heart sprang up to lodge itself in his throat.

"Oh God…" he murmured incredulously, "Now he's gone and got himself killed… Mycroft's going to have me hanged for this… Oh Sherlock, you idiot…" Worriedly he set off running again, every now and then calling out to his friend in the hope of receiving a response.

Finally, despite his initial fears, Sherlock answered.

"This way John; down Canterwell Lane. Our criminal can't hurt us now!" The doctor scuttled toward the familiar voice until he reached "Canterwell Lane", which was little more than a squalid back alley used for keeping rubbish bins hidden.

As he strode in, tall ivy-carpeted brick walls soared up around him making and kind of escape impossible save for the route behind him. In the far corner pressed up against a reeking mound of rubbish bags slouched the murderer. Wild blood-shot eyes stared resentfully from beneath heavy brows at his captor, who stood at the entrance to the alley with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"Hello John," he rumbled sardonically, "Nice of you to show up. I've caught our crook." John snorted sharply in reply. Prim and proper as ever, Sherlock's scarf was unruffled and as was his coat. Unplanned marathon aside, his breath was unhurried, his stance firm, and his pallid face lacked a flush. Only the helter-skelter mop of curls that adorned his head was jumbled, but that was nothing new. He looked like he had done nothing more than go for a leisurely stroll in the park.

Then on the other side of the spectrum was John, bright red, disheveled, and wheezing for breath. Sweat dripped in tiny rivers down his chiseled face, creating dark stains on the neck of his jumper. This contrast infuriated the doctor and it showed.

"Well then," he snapped in a harsh brittle tone, "Now that you've caught him, what do you intend to do with him? Keep him as a pet?"

"No, I am going to arrest him for his crimes." The detective answered matter-of-factly.

"And how are you going to do that?" John hissed acerbically. "He's got a gun; he's not going to come quietly." Lowering his voice, he added, "Besides, I think he's a tad lacking sanity-wise." In the corner the murderer shivered a bit and fondled the pistol he had clenched in one of his massive hands. It was of a peculiar make, one John had never seen before.

"He's not dangerous anymore," said Sherlock, and calmly took a step forward. In an instant he had the murderer's gun trained on his head. Despite the fact that he was the armed one, terror lurked in the lines of his face and oozed from his pores like cold sweat. His hands quavered ever so slightly as Sherlock grinned at his reaction and sidled closer. The detective's steely eyes never left his.

"St-stay back," he gasped, "Get away! I'll… I'll sh-shoot!" Sherlock took another step.

"Sherlock…" John said warningly. Like a child defying his parent, the detective edged forward, paying no heed.

"Don't m-make me… Don't make me shoot y-you…" The criminal's face had crumpled into a mask of despair. His voice cracked as he whispered, "'Cause I will if you m-m-make me." There was a tense stretch of silence, broken only by the murderer's shuddering exhalations. Then Sherlock did the unthinkable:

He threw back his head and laughed.

Never before had John seen a scenario deteriorate so quickly. A dark veil of anger fell over the stocky criminal's face and a wordless snarl curled his lips. This only seemed to encourage Sherlock, and his snickers built into wails of mirth. The snarl escalated into a shriek of pure hatred as the trapped man raised his gun at the detective… Then fired.

"NO!" A primeval yowl of horror wrenched itself from the depths of John's lungs as the bullets connected. Sherlock jerked once… Twice… Thrice at their devastating force. Fountains for red arced through the air, and the strange maniacal laughter was cut short by a strangled expression of pain and shock.

Again the gun went off and the detective's head snapped back. More filaments of crimson snaked into the air, intermingling with strands of his hair to create a gruesome maelstrom of color. John couldn't look away.

As if in slow motion Sherlock toppled, limp and unresponsive; a puppet with shorn strings. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, sprawled out in a quickly blossoming lake of his own blood.

"SHERLOCK!" John flung himself toward his fallen friend, knowing in his heart that no one, not even Sherlock could survive an attack like that. But he clung to the desperate hope that maybe, somehow, everything would be alright, that Sherlock would simply get up, brush himself off and continue the chase.

Vaguely he noticed the murderer dart past him and flee from the alley, but that didn't matter. The spatters of blood on his shoes didn't matter. The bruising impact of the pavement on his knees when he staggered and fell didn't matter. The tears fogging his eyes didn't matter.

All that mattered was getting to Sherlock before the end.

He knelt beside his stricken friend, and with leaking eyes surveyed the fatal damage. The right side of the detective's face was smeared with blood from his head wound, blood that also dragged down his irrepressible hair and pressed it against his temple. It ran like water down his sharp face, staining his lips, his teeth, his chin.

His lean chest heaved and labored underneath the shredded remains of his overcoat, while the white shirt between them darkened into a glistening shade of crimson. Despite the fact that he was panting for breath his lungs couldn't contain, his eyes were remarkably tranquil. _Shock, _John realized with a chill. This was a sight he had seen far too much of in Afghanistan.

Forcing down bile that rose along with the unsavory memories, John reached over and placed his hands against Sherlock's chest in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Before he could apply much pressure, Sherlock's hands shot out and snatched his wrists, holding them in a surprisingly strong grip then shoving them away.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I-I know it hurts, but you've got to let me help you," choked John. Sherlock weakly shook his head. "Don't you dare, you ornery arse! I'm keeping you alive whether you like it or not!" Sherlock shook his head again, more emphatically this time. "Please Sherlock!" John cried, "Just let me-"

"'M not… hurt John," whispered Sherlock.

"What do you mean not hurt! You're spurting blood all over the ground, how can you say that?" A shrill not of unprofessional hysteria crept into John's voice. When the victim felt no pain in a situation like this they were beyond hope.

"I'm fine… feel." Slowly he raised one of John's hands to his blood-drenched hair. Tentatively John's fingers probed at the detective's skull, wandering under his hair and past his protruding cheekbone. There was no wound.

Feverishly John reached down to his chest again, wrenching the tattered overcoat aside. Beneath the glaze of red his flesh was deceptively still intact.

Dumbfounded, John rocked back on his haunches as Sherlock placidly sat up, wiping "blood" from his cheek with his coat sleeve.

"Pity," he muttered mournfully, "I rather liked this coat." John gaped like a beached fish.

"But… how?" he breathed, "He… he shot you… you fell…" Disbelieving awe melted into fury. "He could've killed you!"

"Not with that gun he couldn't have."

"You scared me shitless!"

"Duly noted."

"You let the criminal get away!"

"No I didn't." Sherlock smugly cocked his head at the opening of the alley. Several police vehicles had pulled up in front of it and the screaming struggling murderer was being strong-armed into one of them by two burly officers. If John's eyes had been any wider they would have slipped out of their sockets.

"So… Getting shot was all part of the plan?"

"Of course," said Sherlock, cool and composed as he wrung out his dripping scarf. "And it worked. Our felon ran straight into Lestrade's open arms."

"How did you know the gun was a fake?" Although John knew it was a loaded question, he felt obligated to ask it. The detective rolled his eyes.

"I know my guns John, its part of the job. This one was of a make I had never seen before, and though it was the shape of a normal handgun the material was most unusual… Low-quality plastic, clearly not gun-making material. It would melt or shatter under the force of real bullets.

"And then there was the man_ holding _said gun. The look on his face, oh, it spoke volumes! He did not want to shoot me at all, and it showed. The rapid breathing pattern and the shaking hands indicated he was bluffing, quite badly I might add. He hoped we would be intimidated by his weapon and simply let him run. But no, I couldn't do that because Lestrade was still two minutes away. I needed time. So I took it. He waited to shoot until he could see the whites of my eyes, and why? He is still traumatized by his past killings and didn't want anything that even simulated something of the like. Emotions are such unusual things."

"For you, maybe," griped John. Sherlock ignored him and ploughed on.

"He didn't want to kill those people. They were friends."

"What! How did you… oh never mind. Why do I even bother to ask?"

"This man makes guns, both real and fake. He has a party at his house, invites friends, as is the custom, and goes to show them his new project. Said project is two guns, one real, and one fake, both very similar in appearance. The man plans to demonstrate his invention to the delight of his guests, but being quite intoxicated, picks the wrong gun."

"Intoxicated?"

"Yes. With parties come alcohol, and this man is a drunk to begin with, I could smell it on his breath."

"As I was saying, he drunkenly shoots the guests and doesn't quite understand until the next morning that his friends are in fact deceased and not faking as he originally suspected. In a fit of fright and anguish he starts packing his bags to flee in order to escape what will surely be a life-sentence, but by then his neighbor having heard last night's ruckus calls the police, and the police call us, and we all wind up on his front step. He hears us and grabs the first gun he sees before escaping out the back door. We follow, and after leading us on a merry chase around London he finds himself caught in an inescapable maze of back alleys.

"Panicking, he blindly shoots at me, but misses and hits a window. Having seen the effect, he discovers he has the fake gun, not the real one he intended to bring – not that he would've used it – and panics all the more.

Finally he has backed himself into a corner with no way out, except the decoy gun. Fake or otherwise it pains him to use it, so he tries to bluff. It doesn't work, so he shoots then runs… right into Lestrade and company. Not dull exactly, but quite far from exciting." John was struck dumb. No matter how many times he heard his companion deduce, it still awed him.

"Bloody brilliant,"

"Bloody boring," said Sherlock, gracefully getting to his feet. He shook himself briskly, splattering fake blood on the ground, the walls, and John's jumper.

"The "blood" looked so real… How did it work?"

"Pressurized capsules housed by bullet-like facades. They are fired at high speed, and explode on impact. They stung quite a bit, I might add," he said haughtily.

"What will criminal masterminds think of next?" John inquired jokingly, and Sherlock smirked.

"Who knows? A machine for the shredding of hideous jumpers, perhaps?"

"Hey!" John punched him in the shoulder, only half annoyed. "Speaking of which, I'm drenched with red paint, or whatever this stuff is, and you'd better hope it comes out, otherwise you owe me a new jumper."

"I wouldn't count on it. What color would you prefer? Putrid puce? Pocket lint grey? Unidentifiable mix? I could go on."

"Never mind, I'll buy it myself! Knowing you, I would probably reach into the bag and pull out a shirt made of human hair!"

"I was thinking more along the lines of used dental floss."

"Ha ha." Suddenly the doctor's face sobered, and the prominent lines etched around his features were cast into stark relief. "But what if the gun had been real?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

"We never had to worry about that. It's not as if it can just morph back and forth between lethal weapon and cheap counterfeit."

"No, I meant what if he had taken the real gun with him?"

"I would have adjusted my plan accordingly," the detective responded neutrally.

"How?" A long moment passed as Sherlock turned away to ponder the question. At last he said,

"It all depends on a multitude of factors-"

"Now you're just avoiding the question! What would you have done?" Demanded John. Sherlock turned slowly, looked him straight in the eye and said,

"I don't know. I'd just make sure that you never got near him. If he hurt you…" he faltered, breaking eye contact with John in favor of staring at his paint-encrusted shoes. Swallowing thickly, he continued in a voice barely louder than a whisper. "I would've shown him that I am exactly what Anderson fancies me to be: _a psychopath…_"

"Hey, I can defend myself you know!" John quipped affectionately, "Don't forget that I was trained in the military."

"I… I know," Sherlock's gaze hadn't since left the floor. Placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, John guided him gently from the alleyway.

"How about some breakfast?" he suggested, "I'm starved! We can go to that little coffee house you like… It's got Wi-Fi so I can update the blog. My laptop's with Lestrade. What do you say?" His efforts were rewarded by a glint of a smile from Sherlock.

"If you insist. We might get some odd looks however." To emphasize his point, he tugged at a lock of his hair which was stiff with paint and sticking out like a mutilated starfish.

"Let them stare!" John declared, smoothing his filthy crumpled slacks, "I just want breakfast." Together they strode down the street past Sally Donovan and Anderson who sneered in disgust. As they crossed the road, Sherlock whispered,

"Our conversation about the alternate scenario never happened, are we clear?"

"Crystal. Why?" Under the spray of paint, the detective's cheeks reddened.

"I don't think I can bear the thought of Anderson being right."

"Oh? I see," Only with considerable effort was John able to smother a chuckle. "I won't tell a soul then… unless they can provide a suitable bribe." Sherlock's expression of disbelieving horror was so comical John couldn't help but giggle.

"How many new jumpers will it take to keep you quiet?" The detective offered, "And if not jumpers, then what? A frozen body part under your pillow for every day of the year? Don't make me resort to threats, John." And so they went, bickering down the lane.

In the end, the conversation never made it to the blog, but a few severed hands _did _make their way under John's pillow… just in case.

~ The End ~


End file.
